We’re a rag-tag group of people vigilantly pursuing self-sustaining educational & employment opportunities with and for students and their families living in rural communities in developing countries. We believe in asking hard questions like, “What do you need and how can we help?” We believe that communities know their needs better than we do and that it’s our job to listen. We’re big on being kind for the sake of kindness and we believe that even the smallest acts of kindness can make a big difference. We believe in keeping vigil over one another and watching for opportunities to help, no matter how far off the beaten path those opportunities take us. We’re vigilant in our belief that God has given each person unique gifts and that one of the highest forms of worship is using those gifts to serve others. We believe God has a purpose for each life and Vigilante Kindness is our purpose. Join us as we live out wild adventures in service of God and others. Join us in committing acts of Vigilante Kindness.
Hey, Vigilantes, have I told you lately how much I adore you? I have? Well, let me tell you again. I love you to smithereens.
Not a single day goes by that I don’t hear things like, “Hey, Alicia, what can I do to help you?” or “Is there something specific you need donations for?” or “How can I specifically pray for you?”
And I can barely even talk about the donations that just show up without fanfare. Little PayPal notices in my inbox, crumpled bills shoved in my hand when we bump into each other at the grocery store, and white envelopes in my mailbox with notes like, “Use this to do something good.”
I’m beyond grateful to get to do this work with you.
I feel like when I go to Uganda, you all go with me. And I love that. This isn’t my story or my adventure, it’s ours and I don’t want you to miss a second of it. You don’t either? Good.
Many of you follow our blog and I’m glad because it’s the place I get to write all the long, beautiful stories Vigilante Kindness is part of, but I want you to see the smaller moments, too, like this one of my favorite street sign in Uganda. I can’t help it, it makes me giggle every time.
Humps ahead…
I’ll be posting all of the little moments and photos to go along with them on the Vigilante Kindness Facebook page. I hope you’ll take a moment to pop over there and like our page so you can see every sweet, hilarious, lovely morsel of our story unfold.
The other reason I’m posting today is because the weeks leading up to returning to my Ugandan home are always trying-so many humps, er, bumps pop up unexpectedly in an effort to derail the trip. It happens every year at the same time, always strange, strange things and the timing is too coincidental to be ignored. So would you say a quick prayer or a long prayer or whatever kind of prayer suits your fancy that God would continue to guide and protect me these next couple of weeks? I’d appreciate it so very much.
It was one of those days. The broken air conditioner had blown hot air at us all day. The stuffy classroom put all twenty-five first graders and me in a cranky mood.
Everybody was peeved.
Everybody was in everyone else’s space.
It felt like every syllable of every word was a tattle. “He looked at me funny.” “Her shoe is touching my space on the carpet.” “He’s breathing too loud.”
I wish I were making those up, but, fellow teachers, you know I’m not.
We made it through the day. By the skin of our sweaty teeth. But we made it.
After school an unexpected cart of new computers was delivered, a delightful surprise, except for the fact that the charging cart they’re required to be stored in is roughly the size of China. Since I was going to be out the following day, I knew I had to rearrange my room, lest the natural disaster called Leaving My Class With A Sub should strike and sweep the new computers up in its funnel.
So in the sweltering heat of my classroom, I lifted and grunted three dinosaur computers out of my room. The dust bunnies that had gathered behind the computers scampered away. I heaved the now empty table out and rolled the new computer cart into place, plugging it securely into the outlet, which is when the breaker box decided it, too, had simply had enough of this day. Every machine in my room went silent.
I stood in the silence and the heat, shaking my head. The clock was minutes away from 6pm. I was hot and tired and hungry. I wondered what else could go wrong.
You’d think I’d know by now not to ask that question.
After I’d located a custodian, who unlocked the breaker box and flicked the switch, I readied my room for the substitute. As I took a final look around my classroom, I heard what can only be described as a sizzling sound emanating from the outlet near the Books on CD station.
Sizzling sounds in the classroom are never, ever good.
The sizzling sound came from batteries recharging in the charger. I pulled the sizzling charger out of the outlet, threw the culprit batteries in the battery recycling container, and wiped away the battery acid magma that had oozed onto the table.
I slung my purse over my shoulder and glanced at the clock. 5:57pm. I’d been at work 11 hours. Lunch felt like it was decades ago.
As I closed the door on the day, I had a fleeting wish that I was back in my Ugandan classroom. I had pangs of longing for the simplicity of teaching in an open air classroom under a thatch roof, where the only tools were a blackboard, me, and my students.
I stepped into the shared space outside of my classroom and nodded in solidarity at the handful of daycare kids who, like me, had been at school for 11 hours. Poor kids. Poor daycare teachers.
One little boy sat coloring at the round table just outside my door. I hadn’t seen him before. I know I would’ve remembered him because his skin was the rich coffee bean color of my Ugandan sons. I paused to look at his picture. His nametag sat like a tent on the table and the sight of his name stopped me in my tracks.
Amari.
His nametag read Amari.
Amari is the Lwo word for, “I love you.” It’s the phrase my Ugandan sons use when signing messages to me. It’s what we say to each other with our hearts in our throats when I leave Uganda and return home every summer.
At 5:58pm, here it was, waiting for me at my classroom door.
Amari.
Love.
I tend to forget the remarkable measures God takes to make me know that He sees me. On days when I’m cooked and in the dark and hungry and any semblance of energy I once had has long ago left the building, He sees me.
I wish I were one of those people who picks up on God’s more subtle messages. I’m not. I probably never will be and that’s okay because the better news is that on days like that when I am, at best, a worn out thread of myself, God takes extraordinary measures to make sure I know that I’m loved.
Dear One, maybe you needed that gentle reminder today, too. On days when it’s all you can to do to put one foot in front of the other to wade through the wreckage, God sees and loves you.
an elephant grazing in Murchison Park, adjacent to Te Okot
The elephants of Te Okot were tromping through my mind today.
A few weeks ago, I received a mini grant that allowed me to purchase 23 solar lights from Unite to Light, the same company I purchased solar lights from last year.
23 more solar lights for Te Okot.
23 solar lights that will not be fire hazards in their huts.
23 solar lights that won’t accidentally set their mosquito nets on fire.
23 solar lights that won’t require families to purchase kerosene and then breathe toxic kerosene fumes.
23 solar lights to keep the wild elephants at bay.
It’s that last one that gives me goosebumps. You might know the story already, but if not, let me get you up to speed. The people of Te Okot are sustenance farmers, meaning the food from their gardens is what they eat. It’s not like there’s a grocery store down the block.
A garden = food = life.
So you can imagine what, quite literally, a large problem it was for the people of Te Okot to have wild elephants come and devour their gardens at night, not to mention the acute fear of having wild elephants trample your hut and your sleeping family inside it.
The solution was an elegant and, for me, an unexpected one.
Solar lights.
Now on nights when the elephants come near, the people of Te Okot turn on their lights and place them outside of their huts. Elephants associate light with the lights on the scopes of guns, so when they see the lights, they lumber away, leaving the people of Te Okot and their gardens safe and sound.
All of those things would be enough, more than enough, but, dear ones, this is not a story of just enough. This is a story of Vigilante Kindness from unexpected places and of a company who shows their heart through their actions.
Last week Unite to Light sent me an email saying that there was a mix up and they’d accidentally shipped another box of 23 lights. They gave me three choices:
Return the lights and they’d reimburse me for postage.
Buy the lights.
Keep the lights for free and give them to an organization to distribute and then report back to Unite to Light who I gave them to and where the lights will be used.
The idea of sending the lights back broke my heart, but I didn’t have a spare $250 lying around to buy the extra 23 lights either.
Unite to Light gives generously to non-profit organizations all over the world. We’re not a non-profit, not yet. So I did the only thing that made sense to me, the same thing I did when I didn’t know how to get clean drinking water for Te Okot.
I told a story.
I wrote back to Unite to Light and told them the story of solar lights and elephants and the people of Te Okot.
I told them about our little rag-tag organization, Vigilante Kindness, and that we don’t have our official non-profit status yet. I told them that it would be an incredible gift to bring the extra lights to Te Okot in July, but that I understood completely if they couldn’t do that because of our status.
My email was forwarded to the President of Unite to Light and her response still makes me get all teary-eyed.
Hi, Alicia,
I am so excited about the work that you are doing. I have already promoted you and your website on our Facebook page. (I hope that is OK!)
Your story is so intriguing. I am glad that you will be able to take the extra lights with you and deliver them to the people in Uganda.
You are brightening lives and we thank you.
Sometimes our mistakes work out for the best. Twenty-three more lives will be positively affected with those extras.
Blessings to you for the work you are doing.
I love the line, “Sometimes our mistakes work out for the best.” I’ll say.
23 46 solar lights for Te Okot.
23 46 solar lights that will not be fire hazards in their huts.
23 46 solar lights that won’t accidentally set their mosquito nets on fire.
23 46 solar lights that won’t require families to purchase kerosene and then breathe toxic kerosene fumes.
23 46 solar lights to keep the wild elephants at bay.
So now when the elephants of Te Okot tromp through my mind, I’ll smile and think of 46 more shining solar lights, peacefully keeping the people, the gardens, and even the wild elephants of Te Okot safe and sound.
a mother and baby in Murchison Park, adjacent to Te Okot
Want to help bring light to people of Te Okot and the students of Northern Uganda? Click the PayPal link below. You could be light number 47.
It’s no secret that I hate birds. I’m talking the fire of a thousand suns kind of hatred. Just in case you’re thinking my bird loathing isn’t justified, let me send you on a little trip down memory lane to the day a wild turkey chased me to school.
Go ahead, I’ll wait.
See? I hate birds and they hate me. Fair is fair.
Last summer, with just a few days remaining in Uganda, my three boys set an official meeting with me. They’d been having “brothers only, no mother” meetings without me for a few days, so when they set this meeting with me my interest was piqued, to say the least.
I’m new to this parenting thing and I was a little nervous. They’re not biological brothers. Being brothers is as unfamiliar to them as motherhood is to me. We’re all still working out the kinks of our unlikely family.
Lanyero and Sons: Otim Geoffrey, Alicia, Oryem William and Opiyo Martin
The day came for our meeting and we sat outside at a table, drinking pineapple Merinda. My boys began to speak. They told me how grateful they are that Terry and I support their schooling and how grateful they are that we do so much for them. They also told me how difficult it is for them to ask for our help, especially because they know we’re supporting all three of them.
I didn’t have much of a response except to say that I understand how difficult it is to ask for help. Most days, I’d rather die than admit I need help.
I also told my boys that as their mom, part of my job is to say no when they ask me for things that aren’t in their best interests. (Right moms? That’s part of the job, right? Oh, I’m so new to this.)
They continued, telling me that they’d developed a business plan so that they could begin to pay their own school fees and pay for other necessary items like books, food and clothing.
I took a deep breath. Young boys with a business plan sounded like bad news to me. I had “No” ready on my lips.
Then they pulled out photocopies of their business plan and I knew they were serious. Typing up the plan on a computer and then making copies isn’t that easy when you don’t have access to things like a computer, a copier or regular electricity.
Martin, my middle kid who named me Lanyero, went over their plan in detail and I couldn’t help but giggle.
My boys had created a beautiful business plan to start a chicken farm.
A chicken farm, proof positive that God has a wicked sense of humor.
They even named it: Lanyero and Sons Broilers.
Lanyero means “joyful”. The literal translation means “laughter”. And, Lord have mercy, did I cackle at the thought of starting a chicken farm in Northern Uganda.
What brings me joy about their plan is that they want to tithe a portion of their chickens and eggs to local organizations that take care of people with disabilities, widows, and orphaned babies and children.
My formerly orphaned boys want to help care for orphans.
And just like that my heart melted.
So as people around me are making New Year’s resolutions to get healthy, get organized, get out of debt, I-the girl who is petrified of all things feathered-am making plans to get chickens.
Wanna help make the chicken farm come to fruition? Here's your chance.
Sweet Vigilantes of Kindness, I know you’ve been waiting to hear all about the well in Te Okot.
I wasn’t quite sure how to tell the final chapter of this story. A blog post wouldn’t be enough. A digital picture album wouldn’t suffice.
So on my eleven hour flight from Cairo to New York, I taught myself to use iMovie. Really, why not teach myself something new on long flight in a spacious and extremely comfortable airplane seat, right?
The movie is about 15 minutes long and isn’t professional by any stretch of the imagination, but I like that you get to go with me to see the finished well for the first time and you get to hear straight from the mouths of the people at Te Okot just what this well and the gift of solar lights mean to them.
So grab a big glass of clean drinking water and settle in for another great story of Vigilante Kindness.
Vigilante Kindness 